all-nighter in terminal one.

The last stop of our trip was a visit to see our friend Amber, who’s studying Arabic full-time in another North African country. David booked the flights months ago, which had us arriving in her city at 10:00 pm, spending the night in her flat, and then a full day with her before she needed to take us back to the airport at midnight to fly home.

Well, a few weeks ago, the flight got delayed by several hours. Thankfully, we knew in enough time so that David could get us late check-out from our resort, so that’s how we got to spend our third day there.

We checked out at 7:30 pm and took the shuttle to the airport to first fly back to our capital city.

I’d been feeling a little sick all day and had popped one of the trusty anti-nausea pills my doctor sent with me. Well, it wasn’t to be. As soon as our plane got in the air I started shaking uncontrollably, pouring sweat, and thought I was going to pass out. Then instead of passing out, I started throwing up, and continued to do so for the hour-long flight.

David can always be trusted to handle a crisis well — he grabbed a bag, held my hair, communicated with the concerned flight attendants, obtained a juice box for me, trying not to get sick himself.

I’ve been sick in airports, but this was a first — to be sick on the plane. I’m so glad I have it to add to my arsenal of international travel stories.

I was embarrassed, but more sick than embarrassed, so I just kept my head down on the close-quarters plane and prayed for it to land.

When you’re flying internationally there are so many dang shuttle buses everywhere. Nothing is as simple as stepping off a plane into a closed ramp that leads you straight into the airport terminal.

So, we got off the plane and I knew I’d have to crowd, standing up, onto a bus packed with strangers. Also, this was at midnight. You should’ve seen the terrified look on the face of the gentleman standing next to us when he saw David holding my arm and me holding a fresh “sickness bag.”

But thankfully, that was the end of the throwing up.

I felt nauseous the rest of the trip and a few days after we arrived home, but popped those anti-nausea pills like candy, drank as much water as I could handle, and God brought me home safe and sound.

But first we had to spend a night in Terminal One.

When we stepped off the shuttle bus and into the airport, it was nice and clean, if crowded. David spotted a Burger King right away and was thrilled. He declared, “There’s nothing I want more right now.” I lagged behind him, a little shaky, trying not to think too hard about Burger King burgers.

Poor David. It turned out that Burger King was closed for the night.

So even though we had a four-hour layover, we decided to go ahead and check our luggage and get our boarding passes for the next flight.

We spotted one of the ever-helpful airport employees, showed him our itinerary, and asked him where the gate would be. He looked at it and said, “Ah! That’s in Terminal One. You catch shuttle bus to Terminal One.”

David said, “Ok thanks, so is Terminal One kind of like this, with restaurants and stuff?”

The man’s friendly and smiling face fell, and he said, “Oh no, sir. Terminal One is very old.”

Our smiling faces fell too.

We gathered our things and wheeled our suitcase for the walk of shame out to the curb packed with people and taxi drivers, and waited for “shuttle bus.” We got on it, my stomach lurching, and rode a bit until at one of the stops somebody pointed out to us, “Terminal One!”

We disembarked, with all our things. Only for someone else to grab our arm just in time and point to another, older shuttle bus and say, “Terminal One!” See? I have no idea how we’d manage without so many nice people.

This shuttle bus appeared to be leaving the airport altogether.

Suddenly the Arabic/English signs of the airport were left behind and only Arabic surrounded us on all sides. I shot David a panicked look, but the bus finally pulled off and slowed down to a stop.

Ahh, Terminal One.

The small, original airport terminal.

This was for all the African flights.

We had to wait an hour and a half just to check our suitcase and get our itinerary. Then, after waiting in a very long line to get our boarding pass we were told “There’s a two-hour delay.”

Two more hours?

So, friends, that’s how we proceeded to spend a whole night in Terminal One.

When we arrived in the terminal, we saw a burka-clad woman wrangling three small children. That’s about the time the oldest of the children, a boy of about five, started losing his ever-loving mind. And he proceeded to continue losing it for hours. We lost count at four hours of him screaming — I am not exaggerating.

 

 

Every eye in the above photo was bloodshot, all nerves frayed from hearing this child shriek, most of all his poor mother’s.

Though a couple of people tried to help her, this was no India — where everybody contributes to the comfort, scolding, and discipline of any child who’s in sight. No. Apparently Arabs are more like Americans in this respect. Most people just looked straight down at the ground. I wished very much that I spoke this mom’s language so I could say, “How can I help you right now?”

With our boarding passes in hand, we wandered through the airport, me still trying not to be sick. It was now 2:30 a.m.

We tried to get as far away as possible from the screaming child, and found the “Food Court” upstairs, which was an interesting term for what we encountered. David spied a McDonald’s sign. He said, “I just might cry if it’s closed.” I had already cried more than once that night so I believed him.

We stumbled to the end of the row of restaurants toward the brightly lit sign, through a door, to discover … no McDonald’s. Just a sad, run-down looking room that didn’t look to ever have housed a McDonald’s.

David didn’t cry, but at that point we just tried to find a quiet row of seats and took turns napping under the fluorescent lights until our flight.

Finally, finally, we boarded.

I was so thankful not to be sick again, and we flew two hours to our next city. The screaming child was on our flight, along with several other children, who, after a whole night in Terminal One, were also screaming.

That’s exactly what I wanted to be doing too.

It was a night we won’t forget.